


On the befriending of strangers

by nightreverie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Character building, Cute, First Meetings, Fluff, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Other, Ramblings, Slow Build, There will be more maybe, knitting disaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21794521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightreverie/pseuds/nightreverie
Summary: Jehan and Montparnasse meet for the first time -and things do not click immediately between them. Character study from their POVs - let me know if you like it, I'd like to keep going with it.
Relationships: Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2019)





	On the befriending of strangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeanthegreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanthegreen/gifts).



**-J-**

Even for winter, the day was uncharacteristically quiet.  
  
It was probably a little later than three by that point, or perhaps four, or four thirty; the Sun had dropped out of sight long ago, hidden below the roofs as if their spikes would chase it, and the incessant chatter of the touristic hordes had finally dwindled to faint murmurs and the occasional click of a camera shutter. There were no birds in sight that day; understandable, as Jehan themself felt that they might have already lost a couple of fingers, and the poor creatures lacked the thick wool scarf and accompanying mittens that drew the fine line between romanticism and hypothermia. The garments were a thing of wonder. They were knitted in mustard yellow and cadmium orange, and all colors that could be vaguely reminiscent of autumn in between. Many weeks of suffering had been forever engraved in the tight knots, the marks of slipping wool and unyielding needles scattered along the pattern like scars on a mistreated body. After much cursing and unraveling, hair pulling, yarn stretching, and claiming to the old and new Gods, Jehan had come to think of them as their battle prizes, and satisfied themself with the welcome embrace of their battered confection, the rough touch reminding them of the many pains that humans must take for their own survival, and their bright colors a symbol of capricious Nature. As to their finish, beauty was in the idea of the Scarf itself, and not its execution; the birds liked the bright colors and handfuls of seeds that usually came along with them, and, if something is good for them, must it not be enough for humans?  
  
In these and other thoughts had the afternoon come, and passed, and Jehan had stayed as still as the gravestones around them, Baudelaire’s book half-forgotten on their lap, their bright red hair half-tangled with the earphones that had provided some quiet in the busy hours of the morning. People had stopped passing by, or perhaps they had stopped noticing.

**-M-**

  
_Whenever I finally get home, it can burn down and I won’t be getting out of it_. The thought had been on his mind since six that morning, when he had first set foot on the street and faced a wind that seem designed on the ice pits of Hell specially to torture him. There was no forgetting the damn weather, no telling himself _it will be over soon_ and _at some point it will have to stop_ , because it bloody well hadn’t. He hadn’t gotten much sleep to begin with, he’d been running errands for the whole day, and he still wasn’t sure that his contact, to put it somehow, would even show up on time. To say that his mood was bad was an understatement. Everything about the meeting was sketchy: the timing, the short notice, even the place; who the hell calls for a delivery in one of the most touristic spots in Paris? He might as well be putting up a sign: _this delivery is highly illegal, do come and arrest me_.

It was his first time in the Montparnasse Cemetery. He’d been there for five minutes, and he could already tell that he hated it. It was mutual, or so it seemed; the wind had started to double down the moment he’d crossed the main gate, the damp gravel stuck to his boots and threatened to bring him down as soon as he sped up the pace, and he could have sworn the security guard had been following him, at least for a while. To top it all off, the spot in question was already taken. He would have expected the occasional tired tourist or mourning grandmother: quick to go, quick to forget about him, in any case easy to scare. The person on the bench, however, seemed to fit every possible stretch of the description of _lunatic_. They were wearing reading glasses, but on their head, where people would put up sunglasses in summer, and staring very intently at… apparently nothing, although that nothing certainly seemed to have some sort of tangible presence. Their clothes, by themselves, already spoke of unfathomable horrors; mismatched, tangled, carelessly combined -Were those two different shoes? Was that a _monocle_? He was aware that his own taste in fashion came across as borderline snobbish in his own group; but if a man does not have anything else, he thought, at least he must have taste. It was clear to him that whoever was on the bench possessed neither taste, nor reason, and, most importantly, no will to move anytime soon.  
  
_That will need to change. Fast_.

**-J-**

Jehan had never considered themself a peaceful person. Whatever calmness they might project externally, it was largely compensated by the internal workings of their sharp mind; not even the occasional coat of anxiety, with is threatening fits of paralysis, could sabotage the constant flashes of memory, creativity, and desire tangled in a dense net of passionate wonder. Everything was done in extremes. While their hands fought with leftover yarn over loops and notches, their thoughts gently caressed the most delicate of poems; when they stood perfectly still, as if entranced, they engaged in such violent internal passions that they awoke exhausted, trembling in the aftermath of their vivid imagination. They were, at that moment, fully immerse in one of these such occasions, and the battle was fierce. Against the voice clamoring brisk Italian descriptions of hell’s circles, raised Baudelaire’s poetry, standing tall on a pile of reflections concerning the philosophy of the late Spanish masters and the true meaning of Art, Nature, and the human life, or if there was any point in classifying it as life whatsoever, and whether the spark of Life could be different than the spark shining for a moment in the embers, or whether the trees… But there was a voice shouting at them, and an instinctive fear of the security guards, which applied with the same revolting feeling to any figure of authority, had them jumping to their feet in no time, and repeating a string of _pardon, monsieur, je ne vous écoutais pas_ … , and clearing their messy red hair from their eyes, and then finally realizing that the form in front of them was very much human, and very much angry, but also very much their age and complexion, and standing taller only on a pair of black leather boots that looked like they had seen as many dark alleys as a fallen aristocrat on a nineteenth century novel. Jehan did not enjoy being yelled at; even less so by strangers, and, sparing the newcomer only a look, they made sure to assert their dominance over the bench by falling back on it, recovering their book in the process.

-Take your place on the bench, _monsieur_ -he replied-, that I will keep mine. It is wide enough for the two of us, you see, and you won’t get stains on that jacket by sitting only on half of it.  
  
With that they raised the book up to their chin, and pretended to resume their reading. But in reality they kept an eye on the baffled stranger, and remarked, with a sort of mischievous satisfaction, that he didn’t know whether to stay or to go, to abstain or to answer, or even to sit or to stand.  
  
_Good_ , they thought, _he will leave me in peace soon enough_.  
  


**-M-**

Things were _not_ going according to plan.  
  
_I am the one who bullies people_ , he thought, still trying to recover from the interaction. The redhair did not seem intimidated in the least by his display; he doubted that they had even heard a word, for the looks of it. They were certainly not leaving their place unless he took his attitude to a whole new level, and for some reason they resisted the idea of going physical on them. Not that he had any reluctance towards violence left: he’d thrown at least as many punches as he’d received, and landed most of them, and he was not too bad with a knife, if he said so himself; but when he imagined raising his hand against the person on the bench, something screamed _wrong_ , _wrong_ in the back of his mind. Besides, he was starting to suspect that things were not completely what they seemed with them. They were reading, yes, and poetry from the looks of it, but the book was bound in red and black and looked like a fitting prompt for the next low-budget vampire film. Their bright red hair (was it dyed? if so, it was an incredible job; if not, he would be forced to feel jealous of the color) was held together by a clip in the shape of a skull, and something about their quiet appearance seemed to be masking a harsher reality. They seemed so small; would they really try to put up a fight if they needed to? His uneasiness increased, and he thought it better not to find out.  
  
-I’m sorry -he said, sitting down. _If you can’t beat them…_ -. I really wanted this spot. I’m waiting for my girlfriend.  
  
It was the first thing that came to mind, but it sounded natural enough to be believable.  
  
They raised an unusually bright gaze toward him and he felt suddenly naked, as he hadn’t felt in a long time. Lying was part of his job; so why did it feel _wrong_ to do it to them?  
  
-Well, lucky her -they said, seemingly assessing every detail about him-. But you see, this is my favorite spot. Andromache’s too -they raised and lowered the scarf, as if it were sentient, and he was left to wonder if that was its name or part of the elaborate prank that the stranger was pulling on him-. What’s your girlfriend’s name?  
  
-Michelle -he answered, not missing a beat. Did they know he was making it up? Did he care?  
  
-Michelle -the name was generic enough, but in their lips it seemed hollow, as if merely repeating the word completed the erasure of her existence-. And yours?  
  
There was a brief pause, and he struggled not to avert his eyes from the other’s intent gaze as he thought.  
  
-Montparnasse -lacking anything better, it was as good as any other, but as soon as he said it he felt ridiculous, and he broke eye contact abruptly, feeling his cheeks heat slightly with the choice. Whatever was happening to him, he blamed it on the weariness and the cold; but the thought of the fiery, mysterious stranger laughing at his attempts at secrecy infuriated him.  
  


**-J-**

Jehan had planned to call him out on his bluff and call it a day, but there was something about the other’s brisk demeanor, so obviously struggling with whatever it was that he wanted to hide from them, which spelled out _endearing_ rather than _entitled bastard_. That was enough to spark both their curiosity and their kindness, and, being more than finished with Baudelaire -who was, at best, a glorify misogynist, and at worst an overdramatic fraternity boy-, they resolved to find out as much as they could from their unwilling companion. _Montparnasse_ -they would roll with that for now- had the kind of rugged beauty one would expect in a young officer already back from war; when he spoke he squared his shoulders, and his dark leather jacket fit perfectly with his overall aesthetic: _I’m dangerous, handsome, and I will fuck you up if I have to_. Not the kind of person that Jehan would usually try to get close to -better to stay out of trouble than to jump directly towards it; but there was a hint of vulnerability beneath the ice.  
  
-I’m Jehan -they said, and they smiled, warm and inviting, with a hand still wrapped in a mess of a mitten drawn towards him.


End file.
